


She-Wolf

by 221b_hound



Series: Lady Akela [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Character Death, Gen, Jim son you are toast, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Reichenbach Fix-It, Violence, Werewolf Mrs Hudson, a lot of blood, protective Mrs Hudson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson is secretly BAMF. Much more BAMF than anyone knows. At certain times of the month, a terrifying kind of BAMF. </p><p>Why, Mrs Hudson, what big teeth you have. As Jim Moriarty is about to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She-Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I was toying with the idea of writing werewolf!John Johnlock, and then thought, oh, there's so much of that around, and much of it excellent, they don't need me to add to the field. Oh, but I haven't read ol' Hudders wolfing it up yet. And I'm in a rotten mood. Yeah. Let's have Hudders wolf up in the cause of righteousness and get a bit bloody with it.
> 
> I am writing this one directly into the text box as an experiment. Let's see what happens. (That's right, I haven't plotted it, I've got no more idea than you do at this point.)
> 
> EDIT: I'd managed to forget that it's canon that Mrs Hudson's name is Martha Louise Hudson (nee Sissons) and am editing the name here for consistency.

Mrs Hudson has a bad hip. That came from a nasty fight one full moon in Florida. Damned alligators think they own the swamp. This one didn't live to regret its decision, but the horrible creature made a mess. The bite healed, of course, but her hip hasn't been quite right since.

Sherlock has no idea, of course. He's a dear boy. She loves him like a son, really, though a badly behaved son. He will insist on being a lone wolf, no pun intended, though since Doctor Watson arrived they've at least been lone wolves running together. One day they'll clue up to what she scented in them from the start, but right now they are being incredibly dense.

And then there's that dreadful Jim Moriarty. Thinks he owns the place, too. Thinks he's clever. Thinks he can come in to _her_ place, _her_ patch, and metaphorically piss on the walls, scratch up the furniture, threaten _her_ pack – even if those boys don't know she's claimed them as pack. 

She smells the danger of Moriarty everywhere - on Sherlock's coat, in the fear under his skin that he pretends doesn't exist, in the heightened awareness of John Watson (and how he smells more of gun oil these days, keeping the weapon prepared) and she can hear his dreams again, which had gone away because his (as yet unacknowledged) mate sang to him on the violin. (If Sherlock was a wolf he'd croon a special howl to soothe his mate, but the violin is a good backup for a human, and one who hasn't noticed his mate is his mate yet.)

The court case is a bad business, and then that vile Moriarty comes actually into the den, into her den, and secretes his toxic scent and toxic psychic imprint all over the place. Like a damned pissing dog gone feral, demented with rabies or crazed with pain. _All. Over. Her. Den. Her. Pack._

Mrs Hudson is not having it. She is not (if you will pardon the French) fucking having it.

She's been a wolf for a lot of years now. It was difficult at the start, but she's always had a way of going with the flow, and that can give you a surprising amount of control, actually, if you're not fighting it all the time. 

In short, Martha Hudson doesn't have to wait to the full moon. Not one bit.

After the rabid Moriarty dog leaves Baker Street she follows him. Follows the rancid scent. He walks a while before he flags a taxi – and even it has a scent, butter chicken and pork vindaloo and rogan josh. Must spend time parked near an Indian restaurant, the smell is so strong on the tyres. It moves off and Moriarty is lounging in the back like some sleek but vicious street mutt, pretending to be better than he is.

But she can run, even with the gammy hip, she can lope for a long time, and her eyesight is nothing like as bad as she pretends. Her eyesight is in fact excellent.  So Mrs Hudson follows the cab, loping along in the shadows, following the scent of Indian food and the mad, feral dog until the dog himself crawls out onto the street.

She follows him to the apartment block. Converted warehouse flats. Some good handholds there on the outside, if she needs them, but she probably won't.

A nice thing about being were is that the wolf isn't all that you are. The were means Wolf Plus. The plus part slinks into the garage, and after Moriarty has gone up to the (count them, smell his path) top floor, she breaks the lock to the fire stairs and lopes up, two at a time.

The look of surprise on his face when she breaks down the front door is not unlike the alligator's, when it realised his dinner was going to put up a fight. And was much hairier, and toothier, than at first imagined.

The dog's mate, just as mad as Moriarty, tries to shoot her, but if the bullet ain't silver, it ain't gonna kill her, as her maker once put it, and it passes through her skin and she heals almost at once. The blood she sheds will not be identified as human blood, even if they can find a sample afterwards, amidst the sea of other blood that will be left behind.

She transforms into claws and teeth and she-wolf fury and crushes the hand that holds the gun, then bites the hand clean off, then grins at the shrieking man with her bloody maw.

Moriarty is just looking at her, like it's Christmas. Like he's never seen anything so beautiful.

The shrieking one can wait. 

She-Wolf Hudson bunches her haunches and leaps. The gammy hip throws her off her centre a little - damn it, she forgets to compensate for that sometimes - and so merely throws him aside with her shoulder and her teeth snap in the air beside his ear instead of ripping his throat out at once.

It's all right. She gets him the second time. Her mouth fills with flesh and blood. Oh the blood. So much so much so much blood. He loses his larynx but somehow the windpipe is still mostly intact. Another bite will sort that out. He's a vile little beggar, but she doesn't aim to make him suffer. She just wants him _gone._

He's laughing with a giddy, insane delight, without a sound but with the widest grin and light in his eyes, blood bubbling in the rip in his throat, right up until the moment he dies.

The other one is crawling towards the door. It doesn't take much for him either. Bite. Snap. Neck broken. Easy peasy.

His screams have attracted attention though, so there's no time for a wash. In her clawed front were-paws, with their useful opposable thumbs, she snatches up the remnants of her ripped frock  and stockings and shoes and runs out, down the fire escape, away, away. If anyone sees her, they'll think her simply a large dog. There'll be a hunt on for a rabid animal after this, and no-one will realise that the dangerous one has already been despatched.

Pity there was no time to plan this better, but Mrs Hudson finds a house with no-one home, hoses herself down in the back yard, ridding herself of all that crazy-dog blood. She steals a track suit from a washing line and she lopes home. By the time she gets there she's limping, but she mustn't let Sherlock see. He'd never deduce the truth of course. Silly boy doesn't believe in curses and transformative moonshine and people who can turn into wolves at will.

She enters by her own back yard, stops in the laundry to shove her ruined and bloodied clothes in the bin (she'll burn them later) pull on a dress from the pile of clean washing (not yet ironed) and poke at her dishevelled hair. Then she goes inside.

"Mrs Hudson!" It's Doctor Watson, and he looks shocked to see her as he enters the laundry from the house, arms filled with sheets which he drops as he rushes to her. "What happened."

"Oh, I had a tumble," she says, all flustered, "My hip does that sometimes. I'm all right. Don't fuss."

He's solicitous, helps her inside, checks her quickly for injury. There is none, of course, but it's sweet of him to check.

"You'll be right," he says, putting her in a kitchen chair and putting on the kettle. He puts teabags into a cup. He pours the boiling water. 

She lifted her chin in an unconscious movement, sniffing the air. Home. Her den. Her cubs. All fine. Safe now.

"Here." John puts the mug in front of her and she grasps it to steady her shaking hands. They do that sometimes, after a kill. The adrenalin. Her hip hurts. Her jaw aches. Her hair is a mess.

"Is he dead, then?"

Mrs Hudson blinks at John Watson as though he has spoken Martian. He is sipping his own tea but looking at her with unblinking blue eyes.

"You still have blood under your nails," he said, "And a little in your hair. And your teeth."

"Oh!" Her hand flies up to her untidy wisps, as though the mussing of the hair was the important thing there. "Oh, John dear..."

"I've been around you know," he says, "I've seen things you wouldn't believe. Or, well, you would I suppose. Sherlock on the other hand." He shrugs. "One of the kindest men I've ever met used to lock himself into a deserted concrete ammunitions dump every full moon. He's actually the one who took down the sniper who got me, before he could get me more permanently. Good man. Good... wolf too, in a lot of ways."

Mrs Hudson takes a careful sip of her tea. Then she meets John's steady gaze. "That vile man won't be disturbing my pack again," she says with finality.

"Your pack?" His eyebrow is lifted sardonically, but he's grinning, like he's perfectly happy with the label.

"Yes," she says, and her tone is quelling, but then suddenly the wolf is gone, and she's just tizzy Mrs Hudson again. "And good riddance."

John leans over and kisses her cheek. "I'll say. God knows what new damage he'd have caused."

Insanity, Mrs Hudson is sure. "Best thing to do with a mad dog is put it down."

"Quite. Sherlock's going to be annoyed, though. He was looking forward to the puzzle. When he wasn't pretending he wasn't scared shitless by the bastard. Ah...Sorry." It's funny, how he swears and apologises. He never remembers to not actually swear.

"Sherlock will find other distractions, I'm sure." She gives him a meaningful look, and he manages to react, sort of surprised, sort of guilty, sort of sheepish. Well, so maybe one of them has some clue that they're more than Just Good Friends. It's a start. Perhaps it's time to help that genius boy Sherlock be a little less stupid about some things.

"Well," she says, standing, "I should wash my hair. Brush my teeth. Scrub my nails."

John nods, a soldierly sort of salute of a nod. "If you need an alibi, you've got one from me."

She smiles and pats his cheek, and ignores the dried blood she can indeed see under her nails. "You're a good cub, John Watson."

"And you're a good den mother."

"Cheeky." But her smile is motherly rather than lupine, even with the traces of blood between her teeth. "Go hang out your washing. And leave the stuff in the bin. I'll burn it later."

He laughs, and leaves. 

After she's scrubbed the kill from her nails and hair and skin, Mrs Hudson sits downstairs on her comfortable sofa and listens to her cubs upstairs. Her human ears are not so well shaped for listening, but they do the job well enough.

Sherlock is playing the violin. John is making tea. All is peaceful. Sherlock will probably get bored and start destroying things again soon, in his wilful, puppyish way. And what a waste of energy, when they should be making their bed and mating for life in it.

Silly cubs.

But the den is safe, and that's enough for now.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That went places I wasn't quite expecting. I had no idea John was going to show up. And Know Things. Heh.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "The Lady Akela Anthology" by 221b_Hound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2702954) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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